


To Speak, To Dream

by toneofjoy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Field of Cormallen, First Meeting, Gondor, One Shot, Rohan (Tolkien), hangovers are for lesser men, warm fuzzy Eothiriel content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29170374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toneofjoy/pseuds/toneofjoy
Summary: After a drinking contest in Cormallen, Éomer wakes to find an unexpected guest in his tent.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig & Lothíriel, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	To Speak, To Dream

The Field of Cormallen was swimming in colourful tents and banners, and dawn broke over the land with such glimmering brightness that all hearts were lifted. Within the tents, many folks were still sleeping off their drink from the night before, their heads prepared to ache and their stomachs prepared to revolt against any and all ale. One such man was Éomer, soon to be crowned King of the Mark. He had drunk himself into a blissful stupor, laughing and singing and celebrating with his new friends of Gondor and his own men of Rohan. It had been a night to remember—except that he would not be able to remember much of it, not after the drinking contests.

Éomer bolted up as though he had been struck by lightning, a knife coming into his hand as easily as breathing. His eyes flew open, but the tent was dim in the morning twilight, and he could see naught but shadows and the edges of light creeping underneath the canvas walls of the tent.

But he heard something next to him—the soft, even breathing of another creature.

Perhaps one of his King’s Guard had dutifully followed him and collapsed at his side? Éomer’s eyebrows pulled together, and then a bolt of pain hit his skull like the cleaving of an iron axe.

He cried out and hissed, grasping at his forehead. The person next to him stirred, their breathing shifted. A bolt of fear pierced his lungs, but what came next surprised him more than anything—it was a woman’s voice, one that lit his bone marrow to flame. It was soft and irritable and somehow the loveliest thing he’d ever heard.

'Rothos, if you’re going to lose your stomach, go outside the tent, for Uinen’s sake,' she mumbled.

_Rothos?_

Éomer groaned at the pain in his head and collapsed back onto the bed. He sheathed his knife. Had he lain with a woman who had intended to lay with Prince Amrothos? The thought made him almost laugh. He had easily drunk Prince Imrahil’s youngest, most pompous son under the table the night before. If this woman desired a _real_ man, she had found the right tent. But he could not remember being with a woman—he would recall such pleasure, surely!—nor could he recall having yet seen a woman in Cormallen at all. His confusion deepened as he patted his chest and legs. He was not wearing a tunic, but he still wore the clean trousers he had been given upon their return from battle. Perhaps he had not lain with the woman after all.

Éomer sat back up and strained his eyes to look at the woman next to him. She was wrapped well within the various wool blankets they had apparently shared, which explained why his feet felt as though they had frozen solid.

A lot of black hair splayed messily about a long braid, hardly uncommon in Gondor. But then he took a look at the rest of her, and he received another dull shock. She was nearly as tall as him—absolutely not common, not anywhere.

'Who _are_ you?' Éomer asked, muttering to himself.

He had not meant to startle her, truly—but, at the sound of his voice, she bolted up and flopped ungracefully off the side of the feather-down mattress with the most adorable fox-like yelp.

Éomer stood and groaned at the effort, and he walked to the backside of the tent and lifted the flap to let the dawning sunlight in. The backside of his tent faced the River Anduin, and the sun was just halfway over the horizon, the fiery orange morning light glimmering along the river.

It was joyful sight, and Éomer felt a wash of warmth into his chest. How many times had he ridden to battle certain he would never see another dawn? Yet here he still was, and now he was meant to take his Uncle’s place on the throne.

'Who are you?' she said. He was thankful that her voice was low enough not to wake others in surrounding tents, for it was also low enough not to wrack his head with more pain. 'What have you done with my brother?!'

She stood and the blankets pooled at her feet, and Éomer was relieved to see her fully clothed—there had been no intimate relations, then. She was also holding a small dagger in her right hand, which amused him. But with the sunlight crashing upon her face, he could scarcely respond—she was as tall and stern as Éowyn, and as regal as the Fair Folk. Her hair and eyebrows were raven black, her skin warm like pure sunlight, her lips like poached plums, and her eyes— _Béma, her eyes_ —were like frost-covered emeralds. He had never seen her equal. Who the hell was this woman?

'Am I dreaming?'

'You might be,' she hissed, brandishing her dagger. 'But I most certainly am not. Who are you?'

Her tone of command melded quite wonderfully with her clear contralto voice, and Éomer laughed.

'I could ask you the same question, my lady,' he said, suddenly certain that this woman was no common tavern wench sent to sate warrior’s desires and ease their nightmare-filled sleep. 'How did you come by my tent?'

'I was given word that this is my brother’s tent,' she said. She pointed her dagger at the swan-painted hauberk in the corner. 'Prince Amrothos? I assume you are familiar with him since you are so casually lounging amongst his belongings.'

This was too much information for Éomer’s ale-drowned mind. Prince Amrothos, brother, belongings… none of it made sense. His mind fired off a million questions, but only one met his lips.

'Imrahil has a daughter?'

She laughed wryly, and Éomer thought it a pleasant sound, and was surprised to see her step forward—her gaze set with determination. There was no weakness about her person at all. She closed the distance between them and stood next to him so that the light was no longer shadowing his face. As she stood near him, he could smell jasmine oil about her. He glanced briefly at the blade in her right hand, but he had no fear. He was well prepared to fend off a woman, no matter her appearance of confidence.

'You speak my father’s name quite freely, horse-lord. I _will not_ ask again—who are you and what have you done with my brother?'

'I am Éomer son of Éomund, King of the Mark,' he boomed, suddenly desperate to show some strength and resolve on his part. Who was this woman to command him about? Who was she to present a sterner appearance than him?

' _Théoden_ is King of the Mark. I know you must think Gondorian women stupid, but—'

'Théoden is dead,' Éomer said, his jaw tensing.

Her expression took the full shock of this information—her features went slack, her eyes darkened with horror, her lips parted. But then her eyes dropped to his exposed torso, and it seemed as though she was taking in all the bruising and scars across his chest. There was one particularly large and foul-looking bruise blooming on his left ribcage, the size of a cabbage or larger, and she lifted her hand to touch it.

Instead of stopping her, which he ought to have done, he breathed deeply and waited—her fingers were soft and smooth like salamanders in the spring muds of the Entwash. They brushed against his skin like a cool breeze, and Éomer did not have the sense to stop her. Never had he known the intimate touch of a noblewoman, and she must have had some deep reserve of courage to be touching an unfamiliar and unwedded man so boldly. The thought quickened the blood in his veins as her hand snapped back to her side.

'But you are… if you are Éomer, son of Éomund, then you are Théoden’s nephew, I thought. Did he not have a son?'

'My cousin Théodred has also joined my forebears,' he said.

Tears swam in her bright eyes, like emeralds covered by frost, and her breathing grew uneven. Éomer caught her arm as she seemed to collapse with the weight of this news, and together they sat just within the canvas of the tent, their bodies facing the Anduin and the sunrise.

Éomer watched as she placed her dagger back in the small sheath cleverly hidden in her boot. He showed her the ring of his father on his left hand and the ring of the king on the right as proof of his identity. As her fingers touched his, he felt a sudden tightness in his throat and chest. She then showed her ring, a small silver piece with the swan seal pressed into its face, proof of connection to the Princedom of Dol Amroth. Either she was truly a Princess of Dol Amroth, or she was both a liar and a thief. Yet Éomer doubted the latter: she was so very clearly a descendent of Númenórean and Elvish blood, even without the traditional grey eyes and pale skin. She had the height and bearing of a Queen of Men. The thought sent his heart lurching into his throat.

'I beg your pardon, your highness,' she said, dropping his hands. 'I did not know.'

Éomer watched as she sighed and closed her eyes, as if ashamed. Some colour came into her neck and cheeks, and he rejoiced in the sight of it.

'It’s quite alright, my lady. What is your name?'

'My name? _Ah_ ,' she said, smiling brightly, as if amused that there existed a man who did not know her name. 'Lothíriel.'

'Lothíriel,' he breathed, tasting the sound in his mouth. It tasted of the sweetest mead he could imagine.

'There is much I do not know. That is why I have come to Cormallen before venturing forth to Minas Tirith. Have you seen my brothers? My father? Are they…'

'I have seen them, my lady. They are well. A little more bruised than myself, and just as sick with last night’s drink, perhaps, but well enough.'

Her eyes alighted on him and he saw a brief flicker of a smile before she nodded and her thoughts ran dark again.

'And what of my cousins and my uncle? I’ve heard… horrible rumours.'

'Lord Denethor has passed, as has Lord Boromir, and thus Lord Faramir is now the Steward of Gondor. He currently resides with my sister in the Houses of Healing in your White City.'

'Your _sister_?'

Éomer sighed and shook his head.

'I ought not to be the one sharing with you this information,' he said, frowning. 'You should go to your father at once, and he can tell you more. I do not wish to linger on these thoughts.'

There was a sudden flash of pain in Éomer’s skull, and he groaned and grasped at his head with the pain. He hated revealing any such weakness before a woman, but he had never felt such pain from drink.

'Ill with last night's drink, you say?'

Éomer nodded, still frowning in pain.

'Badly,' he said. 'I’m an embarrassment to the House of Eorl. I only managed 10 pints.'

' _Only_ 10 pints?' she whispered, laughing quietly. 'That’s enough ale to drown me! Forget sick—how are you _alive_? I suppose you are less a King of Men and more one of Ulmo's beloved whales.'

Éomer laughed and leaned back onto his elbows, feeling slightly mollified by her sincere astonishment.

'Some tea and a full meal will sort you out,' she said, her tone tenderer than before. 'Let us go find you something. I will have to face my father soon enough as it is.'

The idea of staying at her side was certainly appealing, but her final words left him puzzled.

'Does your father not yet know you are here?'

'No, not yet,' she said, a look of guilt washing over her. 'He forbade me from leaving Dol Amroth until the war ended and he gave his blessing for me to leave my post.'

'But the war has ended.'

'It has indeed, but he did not give his blessing, which means that I am now a disobedient daughter. I—it will not do for anyone to find us alone together, not like this. Gondorian maidens are not supposed to be alone with any man beyond three degrees of relation.'

Her eyes fell to his torso again, and Éomer felt his chest swell with pride. She seemed to enjoy looking at him, and this knowledge pleased him beyond measure. He desperately wanted her to think him attractive, strong, and worthy of being hers. The thought, the feeling, was startling—he wanted to _belong_ to this woman. _Badly._

'Especially an attractive bachelor king,' Éomer offered with a smirk. He needed her to know that he was unmarried—it somehow felt _very_ important.

'I hope we get your mind sorted out soon, Éomer King,' she said. Éomer flushed to hear his name on her lips—she had pronounced it very well indeed for a Gondorian. 'You are imagining things.'

'Am I?' he asked, his eyebrows shooting up. ' _Am I_ , princess?'

She lifted her chin and smirked at him.

'Yes. As I recall, you are dreaming.'

Éomer felt his skin prickle like gooseflesh.

'I most certainly am,' he said softly, looking at her as though she might fade from sight, 'for you are far too lovely to be real.'

Éomer watched as a dozen different emotions coursed through her countenance; it seemed to him that she flushed around her neck, looking immoderately pleased by his words, but there were other emotions that sobered him. He saw a flicker of fear in her eyes that he did not like, and her expression ran cold near the end. She had not been afraid of him before, so why was she frightened now? What had he said?

'You are just as bad as every man I have ever met,' she whispered. 'A shameless flatterer.'

'It is possible. Alternatively, I could have spoken the truth, and you were not prepared to hear it,' said Éomer. 'Be it true or untrue by your standards, I can guarantee you this: I do not say things unless I mean them, Princess Lothíriel.'

'Right, well,' she said, seeming to shake herself from the spell that had ensnared them. 'I ought to go. You should not leave for some time, in case someone is watching.'

She swiftly stood and he followed, ignoring how his head swam with pain at the sudden movement. They gazed at one another—it was both an instant and an eternity—and then she curtseyed rather more formally than he would have wished.

'Goodbye, your highness.'

Éomer wanted to stop her, to hold her close, to persuade her to stay with him, to continue speaking with her. He had scarcely learned anything about her! But she slipped out into the early morning and disappeared—a thick fog had rolled in from the river, masking her movements. Éomer sat back on the camp bed, his mind whirling from their interaction, and he laughed to himself.

_She was perfect._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This is my first time posting on AO3 so... ya know :) getting used to things! 
> 
> I have no idea what's a reasonable number of pints of ale to consume in a drinking contest, especially if there had already been a significant amount of drinking throughout the day. If you have a better estimation, I'd be happy to hear it! 
> 
> Take care everyone :3


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